Like a Sore Thumb
by tendernesss
Summary: In an effort to not write the the third chapter of Howl, I wrote this. It's a throwback. Revolving around Santana's boob job.


The implants were something you never talked about. They were obvious, like a yellow daisy in a field of red wild flowers. But, not nearly as delicate -Maybe, as beautiful? Yes.

It was a shotgun decision and your parents, ever so ready to wave a check at you, to keep you quiet agreed with haste.

There were consultations and mixed emotions and the elderly secretary eyeing you over the top of her glasses as if you were someone to be pitied.

But, pity is for the penniless and seeing as though you were about to drop quite a few stacks on a new rack, she should've known that you had it made.

She should've know to keep her tender looks of sorrow to herself. Better yet, she should've given them to that fat girl who was always sitting in the corner, taking up two chairs. Always munching on her fingernails while reading old issues of Vogue. Probably fantasizing about all the clothes she'd be able to fit into after the plastic surgeon sucked the goo from her body and renders her, once again, fit for humanity.

Boys loved them and you weren't surprised. In their unskilled paws, they were kneaded and pinched and manhandled. Which was also unsurprising. You had just given them an extra cup of warm flesh, that they didn't know what to do with.

Except gawk and fondle roughly.

And that was okay. A bigger breast size was a power play and it catapaulted you to the very top of the high school food chain.

And even though you had shown them to countless undeserving eyes, the big reveal came a week after classes had begun.

She gawked too.

Blond hair, a wavy mess around her face. Eyes red with want-for you-and confusion for what you did to yourself.

Her hands fell from where they were gripping your hips to hold you still, in front of her.

All of a sudden, the lust from your bodies and the sweetness that had built from not touching each other for two months was gone. Replaced, by disgust.

You felt disgusting.

Brittany was looking at you and you felt like running and screaming and vomitting and telling her to shut her fucking mouth.

But you didn't and you couldn't because she wasn't saying anything.

"What's wrong with you?" Is what you managed to muster out in a voice you hoped was intimidating.

"I heard Puck tell Matt that your boobs had gotten bigger. He said you had surgery, but I didn't believe him." She knew what she was talking about but, still her voice was laced with confusion.

"Look are we going to do this or are we going to talk?"

You're not ready to explain to her that there's a voice in your head, always on repeat, saying you're not good enough. You're not pretty enough. You're not worthy enough.

You're not ready to tell her that the voice kind of sounds like your mother. Kind of sounds like your father. Kind of sounds like Quinn and Puck and your plastic surgeon.

Not ready to tell her that sometimes, the voice even sounds like her.

She takes another dubious glance at your chest, leans over and kisses you again, but without the same urgency as before. So, you pull her closer, tug on her hair slightly to tilt her head back so your can deepen the kiss.

You plunge your tongue deep into her mouth, crush your lips against her own, let your fingernails leave marks in her skin all in hopes of her remembering why you two are there.

You use your body to keep her quiet.

And it works. Sort of.

She's moaning into you with honest abandon.

You're good at this. Good at using yourself to get what you want. You won't apologize for it now or ever. Not even to Brittany.

Two fingers, thrust inside of her and her moaning escalates to a scream. She wraps her arms around you -an affectionate embrace that does little except irritate your overheated body. You shake them off and use your free hand to pin them above her head, against the bed.

She doesn't fight you.

She's seen this look in your eyes before. She knows she's said too much. Or too little? Maybe she didn't use her words correctly? She knows how much you hate when she doesn't enunciate.

Whatever it is, she knows she's made you mad.

So she keeps quiet and still, for the most part. But, with your fingers rocking incessantly in and out of her and your mouth latching onto her nipples, her body has a way of acting on its own. Which seems to please you.

Just not enough.

She lets you fuck her into an oblivion. Until her eyes are clenched tight and her thighs are spasming.

You remove your hand and let your palm glide over her clit before wiping your fingers on your sheets.

She kisses you again, gentle lips trying to make you understand that she's apologizing for whatever she's done to upset you. She tries to maneuver herself to topping you, but you're done.

Whatever magical lesbian spell that had you by the balls earlier in the evening has waned. You stand and grab the robe your mom bought you last June for your birthday.

You took it after reminding her, yet again, that your birthday was in September.

She laughed it off, you swallowed it down.

Brittany's watching you from the bed. You busy yourself with checking your text messages. Four from Puck, Two from Mercedes, Two from Quinn and One from Berry.

You ignore everyone's except Rachel's, but only long enough to shoot her a threatening message about contacting you after school hours.

Brittany finally gets off the bed and begins dressing herself. You watch her, tight body glistening with sweat, hair tangled and your reminded of the throbbing between your legs.

You want her to stay,

but you watch her go.

Monday morning rolls around.

You're reminded once again, exactly why you got the implants. All eyes on you, all the time. Fear and lust and obsession.

All for you.

Quinn catches wind of what you've done. She tells the coach and your captain's title is stripped from you in the blink of an eye.

As if it never belonged to you.

You're hurt, you're outraged, you're seeing red and you taste blood.

Suddenly you're back in your bedroom and Brittany's looking at you the way Brittany should never look at you.

And the pulsating between your legs is at a fever pitch.

You feel dangerous -it kind of turns you on.

You try your best to kick the shit out of Quinn, but Professor Sweater Vest jumps in the way. He's lucky you don't swing on him.

A crowd has formed and in it Brittany.

You tighten your pony, grab her hand and march straight to the second floor faculty bathroom, locking the door.

She grins and says your tough.

You start to cry.


End file.
